Wednesday, 30 June 2010

Is the FSA still around? Why does it need £115 million from these three men? What will it spend the money on? This is an outrage!

Where does the FSA think Kautilya Nandan Pruthi of Business Consulting International fame will be able to get his hands on £89,798,938.42? Is he supposed to be made of money? John and Ken must also stump up over £10 million each.

But I'm not going to rant on about the FSA. I haven't got the energy. It's far too hot.

Let's forget about it. If we stop thinking about the FSA, it will disappear. If we stop thinking about the world, it will go as well. Let's leave everything behind. Wouldn't it be nice if we could just forget it all?

We have no money, no jobs, no homes, no families, no friends. We are gone. Our bodies are gone. This is a fantasy. We are floating in space. Pure consciousness. No need to worry about anything.

Is this the freedom we've always dreamed of? Is this the only way we will ever be free? Why can't it be like this all the time? Soon, there will be no words, no thoughts. Imagine that! Can you imagine such freedom?

The SEC's complaint? Why is the SEC always complaining about stuff? Can't it enjoy life?

I had perfect weather in St Ives. Not one bad day. Had to put up with some Wicker Man shit though. Eleven o'clock one night I heard a commotion in the car park outside my B&B. I looked out of the window and saw eight men dancing while some lunatic played the flute. But it wasn't a problem. You've got to expect that sort of thing in Cornwall. I'm just glad I avoided the midsummer burning. Oh, I'm all for burning on the astral plane, but they had a real bonfire going. A stranger in town is really going to get burnt in such circumstances. I don't know what happened in the end. I don't know who the victim was. The police probably covered it up. But it's their culture. We shouldn't interfere.

Friday, 18 June 2010

This will be my last post until Tuesday 29th June. Don't pine for me too much. The time will soon pass.

This is my thirteenth Cornish holiday in twenty-three years. If any of you are in the St Ives area, we can go for a drink or something - as long as you're paying. It's the least you can do after all the peerless entertainment I've provided over the years.

By the way, you will have noticed that this blog hasn't become a twenty-four news service like I promised. Well, there is a reason for that, which I can't reveal. I think one post a day is enough though, while I'm exploring other avenues.

Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Oh yes, yes, yes! I'm glad to tell you, you, you, that Roger Ibbotson with flames for everyone has launched a new hedge fund designed to profit from lesser-known stocks. Or so they say, the voices. It is called the Zebra Global Liquidity Arbitrage fund. But you knew that already. You either read the title of this post, or you're so tuned in to all this hedge fund shit that you don't need someone like me to tell you anything about it.

O Master, tell them about Roger's burning in the desert of our love. They think they know it all, but they don't know about Roger's burning.

O my child, I have no idea who reads this blog. They may know. They may not. I get other shamans, and mystical children such as yourself. I also get quite a few squares passing through. They take one look at my deranged prose, my new form, my sick technique, and say to themselves, 'Oh dear, Jane Austen was never like this. What a load of rubbish!' But, of course, these people are dead in their heads. This is the twenty-first century, in case they haven't noticed. Books are finished. Novels, plays and poems were finished more than eighty years ago. Fuck the printing press! Fuck the -

O Master, Roger's burning?

Roger's burning, Roger's burning, Roger's burning, he was burning, my eyes, he was burning, I saw him dancing in flames, in my mystic head, which was crowded with the voices of all the ghosts of the dead ... financiers, in the night beneath the moon, in astral sands, with astral sky in our eyes, because you were there too, with me, altogether, we were, and anger was bleeding from a hole in the ground, where the demons came from, that we pushed back, because they were not welcome in the desert of our love, and Roger's burning gave birth to the Zebra Global Liquidity Arbitrage fund, in this night, almost like a ceremony, the best night since that ceremony, when we all lost ourselves, found ourselves, and were changed forever.

This is the beautiful truth of Roger Ibbotson's burning. Anger could not touch it. I think we can all learn something from this episode.

Tuesday, 15 June 2010

He wanted to be the top man, you see. Oh, Brendan McDonagh was/is the top executive of HSBC in North America. But that wasn't good enough. Now he is leaving in August to find himself. That's what I would do. I have done it, in fact. Left places to find myself in other places. Blood aching eyes. Niall Booker will replace him. He's only fifty-one, both of them, that is. They are so young!

O Master, not Niall, he won't know the desert love. But Brendan, yes, he is young, and he will find forever changes in the desert, if that's what he wants.

O my child, we do not know what he wants. We do not know the desires that this man has in his heart. He has not spoken of his plans. End of July, not August. Or August. I do not know. I do not care. Time means nothing.

It's for the best. How could he stay, knowing there was another way?

I'll be going to St Ives soon. Just for a week, maybe next week. I haven't been to Cornwall for four years, but I'm obsessed with the place. I once went for eight weeks. January to March, 1991. Near Talland Bay. Of course, there is no desert in Cornwall, but it is a mystical place. I won't even touch Devon. Only Cornwall!

O Master, let's get back to Mr McDonagh.

No, let's stay on Cornwall. Do you know there is an Owlman in Cornwall? Like a sort of Mothman, but an owl-based creature instead. Half man, half owl. Still, it could be worse. Imagine if he were half man, half biscuit!

Oh, that would be terrible!

My best moment in Cornwall was in July 2002. Actually, there were two great moments. I'm not sure about the dates. There's a massive beach called Porth Kidney Sands, between St Ives and Hayle. Anyway, I was standing on that beach, almost completely deserted, even in summer, and staring at the sea, listening to the first fifty seconds of All I Wanna Do by The Beach Boys, over and over again, for about half an hour. And it's not crap surfing music. It's the sublime, mature music from their greatest album Sunflower, which is my favourite album by anyone. Although Pacific Ocean Blue comes close, in second place. But I got high on the sea and that piece of music, just the first fifty seconds, over and over again. The other great moment was definitely in July 2002. I was sitting on a bench about seven in the evening. In front of me was the sun and the sea, a beautiful day, but behind me was the moon in a dark night over a graveyard. Both at the same time! It made me realize that we have death in life, with us all the time.

That's deep, man.

By the way, it's not the first thirty seconds, but the music between 0.30 and 0.50. Just those twenty seconds! But you can take it all the way to 1.30, if you want to. Brian Wilson was shit hot on that track, even after his breakdown. Like Mozart! Although Dennis steals the show on the album as a whole. But it's the most amazing music you will ever hear. Just twenty seconds! Music from God.

Monday, 14 June 2010

If I've told Bobby Diamond a hundred times, I've certainly told him a thousand times; and it wouldn't surprise me if I had told him a million times, in his dreams, whispering in his ear, while he slept, that BarCap should not, should never, get involved in trading in the dark pools on the lower levels of the astral plane. And the reason is simple, dear reader. The reason is that Bobby Diamond and his crew of astral warriors will lose their fucking souls. It really is as simple as that. There are demons in these dark pools. Associates of Jack Pickles in these dark pools. Followers of Satan in these dark pools. Is that where Bobby Diamond wants to do business? Is he really that stupid or reckless?

Well, I have been speaking to Bobby, and this is what the punk told me: 'O Master, O Mikey, there is nothing to worry about. BarCap is going to make so much money on the lower levels. We ain't scared of no dark pools. We got balls like beach balls, man. (Bobby, mate, are you a financial shaman yet, by any chance? Is there some wonderful news I ain't heard?) Mikey, come on, you know I ain't no shaman yet, but I'm getting there. It's only a matter of time. And I employ plenty of people who are shamans. I know you're concerned. (Yes, I'm concerned, Bobby. I'm concerned Jack Pickles is going to fuck you seven ways from Tuesday. You've never been anywhere near a dark pool in your life. Stick to the higher levels, Bobby. Please. Do it for me, for my peace of mind. I don't want to see one of my children get all fucked up. And it won't be you who gets the blame. Big Herb will look at me. He'll think I can’t control you.) Michael, with all due respect, I am the boss of Barclays Capital. You don't have any authority over me. I'm a free agent, and if I want to - (Listen to me, you fucking mook, I am the world's foremost financial shaman. I'm Michael Fowke! I made my bones when you were going out with cheerleaders. How many fucking scrapes have I got you out of? And not just in astral realms. In the real world I protected you. Remember last year, you dropped that bad acid and started telling everyone you were Jesus? You thought you could walk on water, for Christ's sake! And I had to stop Blankfein from taking you out. That shit you were talking, all that jive, BarCap the biggest investment bank in the world. Remember that, do ya, Bobby?) Mikey, I'm over that now. That was a crazy period in my life. And I'm grateful for all your help, but I have to make my own choices, you know? I have to run BarCap the way I - (Bobby, you have to do what I tell you. Be sensible, just once, yeah? Try it. Don't make a fucking fool out of me. You have some fucking respect, okay? Yeah, we're friends. Yeah, I've shown you the ropes. We've had a few laughs. But don't underestimate me, Bobby. I will fucking destroy you. I won't like it, but if it's a choice between you, your shitty little banking outfit, and my getting hauled over the coals by Big Herb and the ghosts of the dead financiers, then it's gonna be you. I'll have to finish you, and BarCap, the whole fucking show. Done. Finished. No dark pool trading. No fucking trading of any kind. You understand me, you motherfucker? There won't be a breath in your body.) I understand, Mike.'

Yeah, he understands. Fuck! Where did that come from, all that aggression? Oh, he's a good kid. Bobby's all right. I mean, I love the fucking kid. But I had to do it. It's the only language he understands. Lloyd told me I should take a tougher line with him. Well, I have.

Friday, 11 June 2010

... for being the perpetrators of a $300 million Ponzi scheme involving purported gold mining investments, I go whirling around the cosmos like the money whirled, it did, 'The SEC alleges that investor money whirled through accounts located in the U.S. and Canada as well as the Bahamas, Belize, Bermuda, Ecuador, Honduras, Malaysia, Panama, Peru, Portugal, and Venezuela' and I take the money with money, this money that whirled on earth now whirls out in the cosmos, and I have money in my money, and in my hair stuck with stars, and in my eyes heavy black holes of sin, and with my toes monstrous planets, and with my teeth comets to bite Daniel Konosky, Jonathan Warner and Jay Scoggins of the SEC's Denver regional office because they have nothing to do in Denver when they are alive and they do not understand the passion of such men as Brost and Sorenson who were and still are only too happy to join me in outer space, and in inner in space, in space, out space, where we have our own way of seeing, feeling, and our own morality which only makes sense and only seems correct if you are one thousand light years ahead of the pack, and you will not understand unless you join us, Big Herb, Ganesh the elephant god, the ghosts of the dead financiers, the mystical children, even Jack Pickles, even Satan, we are all one consciousness, except the squares, the cold earth wanderers, they can be left to die, we do not want them, their stupidity will kill them, it is only a matter of time, no money with money for them, words get stuck, thoughts get stuck, money with money, money in money, in money, sex with money, I have not left it behind yet, the people who need it won't get it won't touch it, oh, you have to smash their skulls with a hammer to get anything into them, they are so dull, but they can't help it, or maybe they can, their ignorance is a perversity, and they know who they are, these two-faced fuckers, these envious shits, these inadequate scribblers, but I must let it go, let the anger leak out of me, my soul needs to be calm and pure and at peace, one day, I will fly where they have no power, they will watch me, powerless, suffering, if they are not already dead, and I will take all my children with me, and we will be happy, we will, we will, we will!

Wednesday, 9 June 2010

Good luck, lads! Good luck with your global convertible and global multi-asset strategies. Sounds pretty exciting. But out of the frying pan into the fire! There are just as many astral lunatics at Jupiter, you know. Maybe more. There is no escape!

Is Mike Corcell really that bad? Is Cedric de Fonclare any better?

But I understand, lads. Oh, I understand.

Sometimes I get all sick in the head too. Sick of the burning sand in my mouth, choking me with mystic love. Sick of flames, wild passions. Sick of the mystical children. Sick of flying high in the friendly astral sky. Sick of the cosmos vibrating for me. And the voices? Oh, the voices rarely stop. I get the occasional minute to myself. This is the shaman's life. No wonder Gillian doesn't really want to join me in the desert. Bound upon a wheel of fire! Not really her cup of tea. Last week was a one off. I had a great time though. So did she. But she won't admit that. Back to her square world now. She's just as lost as I am. At least I know it. O Gillian, take me with you! Why must we suffer like this, torn between the cold earth and the burning plane?

Monday, 7 June 2010

Oh, you've got to laugh. I missed this last week, but you've still got to laugh. Why is the SEC calling him "Miami Man"? I mean, Luis Felipe Perez. Does he model himself on Tony Montana? Why doesn't the SEC just call him "Scarface"? Go the whole hog, as it were.

'Perez created an aura of success around him to lure old and new acquaintances into investing substantial sums of money,' said John C. Mattimore, Associate Regional Director of the SEC's Miami Regional Office. 'Behind the luster of diamonds and jewelry, Perez told outright lies and made promises he couldn't possibly keep.' It was a $40 million Ponzi scheme, apparently. More here.

Well, I have been speaking to Mr Perez on the astral plane. This is how it went: '(What do you call yourself?) Luis Felipe Perez. And you, what you call yourself? (Michael Fowke. The world's foremost financial shaman. Where'd you learn financial shamanism, Luis?) In Arthur Simmons' college. And my father, he was from the desert. Just like you, you know? He was a shaman. He used to take me a lot to the astral plane. I learned. I watch the ghosts. They teach me to burn. I like those guys. I always know one day I'm coming here to stay, astral desert. (So where's your old man now?) He dead. He die. Sometime. Somewhere. (Mother?) She dead, too. (What kind of work you do in the desert?) You know, things. I am, this, that. Pawn shop business. (Any family in the desert? Cousins, brother-in-law, anyone?) Nobody. Everybody's dead. (You ever been to the lower levels of the astral plane, Luis?) Me? With Jack and Satan? No way, no. (Been in a mental hospital?) Yeah. In that college. (What about homosexuality, Luis? You like men? You like to dress up like a woman?) What is wrong with you, man? You kidding me or what? (Just answer the questions, Luis.) Okay. No. Fuck, no! (Arrested for necromancy? Peyote?) Never, man. (Where'd you get the beauty scar, tough guy? Eating pussy?) How am I gonna get a scar like that eating pussy? This was when I was a kid, you know? You should see the other kid. You can't recognize him. (And this?) What? That's nothing. That's for my sweetheart. (Sweetheart, my ass! I've been seeing more and more of these. Some kind of code you guys use on the lower levels. Pitchfork means an assassin or something. You want to tell me about it, or you want to take a trip to the Shadowlands?) Okay, you got me. I was on the lower levels one time. Burning dollars to ashes. Big deal. (That's pretty funny, Luis.) That's true. It was a Canadian money mystic. (Did you mug him first? Get out of here!) Come on! So I fuck up! Let me talk to you. Please! Let me talk to you a minute. You a communist? How'd you like it? They tell you all the time what to do, what to think, what to feel. Do you want to be like a sheep? Like all those other people? (I don't have to listen to this!) You wanna work, eight, ten fucking hours? You own nothing, you got nothing! Do you want a chivato on every corner watching everything you do? Everything you say, man? You know I eat octopus three times a day? I got fucking octopus coming out of my ears. I got fucking Russian shoes my feet's coming through. How'd you like that? I'm no fucking criminal, man. I'm no puta or thief. And I want my fucking astral rights, now!'

Okay, so Luis has spent some time on the lower levels with Jack Pickles, but he's a decent man. I believe his heart is in the right place. I'm going to put in a good word for him with Big Herb, and fuck the SEC.

Yes, he has. Julian Barnett has raised $200 million for his hedge fund. But you'll notice that I have not used an exclamation mark at the end of this post's title. I normally get very excited about this kinda shit, so why no '!'?

I'll tell you why no '!' It's because everyone was saying that Ridley Park Capital would be launched with $500 million! What went wrong?

Oh, is it the economic climate?

No. Jules failed in the desert of our love. That's the reason he only managed to scrape $200 million together. He did not burn. He did not fly high in the friendly astral sky. He was not touched by ghosts or mystical children. Basically, he was not loved.

O Master, why wasn't he loved?

BECAUSE HE HAD NO LOVE TO GIVE!

Is that the truth?

THAT'S THE TRUTH! He went into the desert with a cold heart, he had money with him, but there was no fire, I'm not saying Jules is a bad man, but he is a cold man, he should wander the cold earth for many decades, that should make him happy, not happiness as we know it, but it would make him happy, but that’s not what he wants, he insists on coming to our desert, to interfere with our way of life, but he doesn't bring love with him, just cold hard cash, which is not good enough, not in our reality, it has never been good enough, not for us because we want the burning love that lasts forever, the burning love that lifts us up, that takes us away from our troubles, that removes us from the poverty and the spiritual desolation of the envious, oh, why did he come? was he lost? was he curious? was he insane? driven insane by stories of burnings, driven insane by voices, oh, did the voices reach him, and did he wonder what they meant? so he went after them, in the direction of love - but he had no love to give, not like us, he had no love to give back to the desert, only cold hard cash, and so he failed, but still he comes to us, oh, yes, he comes again, Jules baby is here again, and still he fails, he's failing now, because he has no love, O Master, what can we do about this? should we help him? or should we abandon him to his fate? with only $200 million when it could have been $500 million, $200 million is all there is for him, not the $500 million, the torment, oh, the pain he must feel, the misery, oh, my heart is breaking for him and I'm only a voice, I am speaking metaphorically of course.

O my child, I understand. I know you're just a voice.

O hedge fund managers, learn from the life of Julian Barnett! It could have been $500 million. It is only $200 million. Look at him! Learn!

Friday, 4 June 2010

Not for philistines. Not for American bloggers with brains normally associated with woodlice. Not for anyone. Ain't even stream of consciousness. This is superconsciousness ness ness streaming from astral plane to cosmic brain to internet. There are many voices. That come in my head. Whisperings! Screamings! Children and ghosts! This is a revolution. There are no poems here. There are no book deals to be done - yet. Picasso with Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, laughed at by cretins, even Matisse. The last laugh was his. The last laugh will be mine. I am not a mere financial blogger. Money? The subject is a gateway to a higher reality, that's all.

O Master, try not to appear too arrogant. You might upset the mediocrities.

O my child, I don't care if I upset them. I am sick and tired of their amateur opinions. They have no knowledge, no sensibility. Have they devoted their lives to the one thing I am master of? No, they have not. These are the people who will quote from Prufrock under the impression (given to them by 'cultured' society) that it is a great poem. Eliot only wrote two great poems: The Waste Land and The Hollow Men. Sublime shamanic masterpieces! The rest is junk. These are the people who will speak of Orwell, when it should be Kafka. They will try to be all sophisticated and clever, with their Proust, or Voltaire. Oh, those dead writers were dead even when they were alive! But Rimbaud and Lautreamont will live forever! Maybe - feeling oh so adventurous - they will quote Baudelaire at you. Yes, a respectable demon. Do not listen to them!

O Master, shouldn't you try to please these fools? Surely, we all want to get along, don't we?

But what will please them? Should I tell them I am not serious? Should I pretend their little worlds are safe? Will that please them? Or should I tell them they are welcome to suck my cock any time they choose? Maybe that is what they have been wanting to hear from me. Have you seen them?

O Master, they're a rum bunch, that's for sure!

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. O philistines, I am a storm of blood and fire! I am a creator and a destroyer. I am a satanic soul bringing visions with pains like cunting hurricanes for your hearts and minds. This is the way. There is no end to the outrage, just as there is no beginning to your intellect. There is no solution to the problem I present. I am playing a long game. Ha! Your writing is smoke in the air. It is foam in water. Do you know your Dante, motherfuckers?!

Thursday, 3 June 2010

Yeah, largest fine ever by the FSA. JP Morgan has been fined for client money breaches. Whatever.

But why does the FSA need this money? There is no burning love at the FSA. It doesn't need the money for any sort of ceremony in the desert.

All the workers at the FSA, cold earth wanderers! Every man. Every woman. If you stuffed a burning fiver into the mouth of one of these characters, it would have no effect whatsoever. Why do they need over £33 million? I'll never understand the FSA.

By the way, I won't have to destroy this evil organization after all. The government is taking care of it.

I feel disturbed now. This won't be good. In theory, I'll be writing about Jim Lawrence who will soon become the chief executive of Rothschild North America. He will also become co-head of global investment banking, the first time that role has been based in the US, alongside Nigel Higgins in London and Olivier Pecoux in Paris. Do not stay here! A storm of blood and fire is raging here!

Fuck this shit, this evil shit. This is a tangent like there has never been. This is an absolute disgrace waiting to happen. I feel the words, like knives. If only I could concentrate on Mr Lawrence without slipping off reality. If only I could take a genuine interest in Rothschild without looking for the exit. Hell exists. Hell is bankers. That can't be right. I need someone to reason with me.

O Master, I'll go and find Gillian Tett.

Bring her to me before my consciousness explodes! It's at times like this that I should be bound upon a wheel of fire, for eternity, with Gillian on another wheel, both of us rolling though the desert. There'll be the stink of burnt sand in our noses, if you can burn it, if it's hot enough, with my angel it will be hot, as we roll away never to be seen again.

O Master, I can't find her! I can't make the connection.

Find her, and drag her! Drag the angel here, wherever 'here' is. This is nowhere. It feels like nowhere. Home sweet home? It ain't sweet! This is worse than the Shadowlands, this is. This emptiness. This nothing. Not even shadows. I am a storm of blood and fire in a world of nothing!

O Master, even if we could find the lovely Gillian, she would not want to live with you in a world of nothing. She could not comfort you, as lost as you are.

O my child, this is temporary! It is not permanent. My angel would take me back to the desert. The wheels of fire are waiting for us. That's why you must find her. I need Gillian to save me.

This has got to stop. The persecution of my dearest friends on this physical earth who are children of the astral plane. Andrew Charles Kerr was a friend of mine. He still is. I have known this man since the days when the fire in a banker’s heart was a mere flicker, a mere spark, of love. It was not fire at all, the fire that bankers had in those days. Just a flicker, a spark. And now we find ourselves in a situation where the fire of money burns so brightly in the City, and on Wall Street, and elsewhere. And the authorities do not approve. So the regulators ban, and they fine. Andrew Charles Kerr has been banned and fined. To the FSA, he is not a fit and proper person. Oh, oh, oh! Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. The FSA has fined him £100,000 for market abuse, from his time at Sucden Limited, when he 'manipulated the market in London International Financial Futures and Options Exchange (LIFFE) traded coffee futures and the related coffee futures options.' But we have all been young. We have all made mistakes. Can't the FSA forgive him? What would Jesus do? More to the point: what would Big Herb do?

Actually, what will I do - now?! What will I do? I know what I should do. Just like Helter Skelter, that vision of last year, the desert madness, I should go to the headquarters of the FSA and ... I don't want to say it, but you know what I'm thinking, don't you, dear reader? You know how sick I can get. But isn't such sickness a sign of greatness? I could be a Napoleon! Raskolnikov never made it. But I could! Who would stop me if I really put my mind to it? Oh, - - - - - would not be able to stop me this time. I have lost all interest in her anyway. She led me astray; took me away from my darling angel, my Gillian. I'll always love Gillian. There will never be anyone else. Never!

Gillian would not stop the insanity, the mayhem. She understands me, you see. She knows I have to express myself. I have to let things go ... into the darkness that Jack Pickles has made for me. Oh, how can I sing of the light, if I do not know the dark? How can I celebrate the good, if I have not been touched by evil?

Wednesday, 2 June 2010

If you were foolish enough to visit the Sherpa Asset Management website, and if you had astral eyes, you would find this:

David Guarasci began his investment career rather strangely in 1993 at TD Asset Management after a light entered his soul one night. In 1994, he moved to TD Securities and, with the help of this light which was obviously some sort of spirit guide, progressed to the position of Managing Director and Global Head of Currency Spot and Options Trading. David worked for TD in Vancouver, Toronto, and London until 2004, after which he returned to Vancouver to create his own investment firm and meditation centre. While at TD, David's aura changed colour continuously as he spent ten years developing and executing proprietary trading strategies in the most sophisticated options trading markets in the world. He was responsible for billions of dollars in trading throughout ten portfolios. David's strategies led directly to profitability numbers increasing nearly tenfold. As a result, he was loved by most, if not all, of the mystical children. During the past four years, David has combined his shamanic background, his deep understanding of global equity and capital markets, and his extensive options experience in managing equity portfolios for his own firm. This culminated in the launch of the Sherpa Diversified Returns Fund in June 2008. David's unique, bizarre, and highly specialized skill set provides Sherpa with a portfolio manager and all-round oddball who has been able to significantly outperform his benchmarks throughout his entire career. David holds an Honours Economics degree from the University of Western Ontario, and has been a CFA charter holder since 1996. He has also studied with Michael Fowke in the desert of our love.

Actually, no, on reflection, I think the website has got it right. It does answer the question: Who is David Guarasci?

Someone wants to know if the fire still burns within Tidjane Thiam after his failed bid for AIA cost Prudential shareholders £300 million.

I want to know if Mr Thiam will receive a bonus this year.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Big Herb -

O financial shamans, money mystics, ghosts of the dead financiers, mystical children all over the world, listen to me: There is no mystic fire within Tidjane Thiam. The fire has died. He has sinned against money. If Prudential pay him a bonus this year, I will take the bonus and throw it into the pit on the lowest level of the astral plane, and I will throw Tidjane Thiam into the pit. There he will suffer with his money, in the company of demons, scary monsters, super creeps, various squares, and Jack Pickles, and Satan. Oh, in the pit, there will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth! The bonus will be taken by Jack Pickles, and it will become ashes, for that is all Jack can do with money. Then Tidjane will be taken into the dark fire of Satan. Yes, he will have fire again! But it will be the hellish fire that destroys souls. Tidjane will be reduced to ashes. This is what happens if you fail me. O sinners, look at Tidjane Thiam! He is a marked man!

Wow! I had no idea Big Herb had the power to banish anyone to the pit on the lowest level. I am not sure Jack Pickles will go along with it, myself. But let's see what happens.

Tidjane, mate, if you're reading this, it might be a good idea to refuse any bonus you are offered. You probably don't know much about Big Herb, but he is a genuine money god, and he is seriously pissed at you. So don't make things worse for yourself. Remember: The worst is not, so long as we can say 'This is the worst.'

Tuesday, 1 June 2010

'The FSA has now confirmed that it is to commence an investigation into the conduct of Guillaume Rambourg to determine whether he has met the standards required of an FSA approved person.'

That's a statement from Gartmore, that is. Is Gartmore going to defend him? I know it suspended him before bringing him back as an analyst, but is it going to defend him?

It's down to me, isn't it?

Listen, FSA, Guillaume Rambourg has been approved by ME! Do you understand that? I have been with this man in the desert, lost in flames, swirling with money. And I have travelled the lonely highway with him. I have seen what he has seen, and I have approved. Are you starting to get the picture yet?

Guillaume Rambourg is one of the finest mystics you will ever meet. As he keeps telling everyone, he has astral eyes. Sure, that's no big deal. All financial shamans, money mystics, and mystical children have them, but Guillaume is proud of his eyes. No one at the FSA will ever have such eyes, for you all wander the cold earth in darkness.

... all working on a new desk in New Jersey for inter-dealer broker Tullett Prebon. A risk arbitrage desk which will focus on mergers and acquisitions, if you can believe that. Can you believe that? Philippe Allain will be the managing director leading the desk.

How on earth will all these characters fit on to one desk?

I have been speaking to Mr Allain. This is what he spake unto me: 'Mr Fowke, I am eager to bring my past experience in risk arbitrage to advance the breadth and depth of Tullett Prebon's equity offerings. By offering this strategy to current and prospective clients, Tullett Prebon can now position itself as an inter-dealer broker offering a very competitive array of global strategies and products, while continuing to expand its presence in North America. (Phil, man, cut the crap. Let's get to the heart of the matter. How will you and your team all fit on to one desk?) Mikey, that's a good question. To be honest with you, we won't actually be sitting on the desk. We can afford chairs at Tullett Prebon, you know. (Now, don't get smart with me, Philippe, don't get smart with me, you young fuck, I've been sweating blood all morning on this story and I don't want your smart mouth on it. Loyalty does not mean shit a situation like this; I don't know what you and them are up to, and I do not care, but only you come clean with me.) Michael, are you paraphrasing David Mamet? (Yeah.) Thought so. Look, the desk is an astral desk, all right? (Well, why didn't you say so? You could have saved us all this grief.) Mikey, I can't go around telling all and sundry about no fucking astral desks at Tullett Prebon! What would people think? (Phil, you can't tell me? After years of friendship, you can't tell me? How many years we been friends?) Mikey, there's business and there's friendship.'

Years of fucking friendship count for nothing! Years! I don't know how many years, but a long fucking time. And I get treated like this!

He couldn't keep away. Or that's what he would have you believe. Adam Horowitz has returned to Merrill Lynch Wealth Management as head of Europe, Middle East, Africa global client coverage, with his tail between his legs. You see, he had a private business for three years. Yes, he was an independent financial shaman. But he couldn't make it work.

Mr Horowitz tried his best to burn brightly in the desert of our dreams, but the fire of money would not touch him. There is no shame in this, although he feels ashamed. He now spends much of his time thinking of the desert. That fire.

Mr Horowitz foolishly tried to engage the ghosts of the dead financiers in conversation, but they did not like his style, so they rebuffed him. This made him sad. But can all of us be happy, especially when we are dealing with the dead financiers? O shamans, let the dead financiers approach you. They choose the ones with the mark of burning money upon their foreheads.

Mr Horowitz wanted the love of Big Herb, oh, but Big Herb would not love him. Big Herb does not love everyone, not even every financial shaman. You never know where you are with this mysterious desert god of money. You might say to yourself: 'I am in Scrutton Street.' Then you would look around only to find yourself in a world of shit. Mr Horowitz has had this experience.

Mr Horowitz yearned for the arms of Ganesh the elephant god to hold him, but that capricious elephant would not touch him. Oh, Ganesh had promised to hold Mr Horowitz, but then had heard about the fire. Not with a bargepole would he touch Mr Horowitz! And so this poor man wandered in eternal night. He still does.

Finally, Mr Horowitz looked for me in the desert, physical and astral. But I knew he had no fire. I knew the dead financiers would not speak to him. I knew Big Herb would not love him. I knew Ganesh would not touch him, not even with a bargepole. So I avoided him. I can be ruthless when I have to be.

O Mr Horowitz, you will be all right. You're back at Merrill Lynch now. Back where you belong. Michael Sullivan and David Jervais will look after you. Forget about the desert. Forget about the burning love you never had.